I’m standing in my kitchen on a summer morning in July, opening a box of linguini. My son Joshua comes in, sees that I’m about to cook some pasta, and asks if I know what al dente means. “Sure, it means a little undercooked”. I wonder if he thinks I don’t know how to cook pasta. But that’s not what he’s getting at. “Yes”, he continues, “it means a little undercooked, but do you know the derivation of the phrase?” Now he has my attention. “No, enlighten me” I say with a slight smile. “It means to the tooth, like dentist,” he says, pleased that he just taught me something new. We both smile widely and I slide the pasta into the boiling water. Joshua offers to take over the cooking, and since I have other things to do I gladly step aside.
Right then my phone beeps. It’s a text from my daughter Lindsay. “On our way” the text reads. She has just left the cool, foggy air of San Francisco for the one hour ride south to my home in San Jose where it’s warm and sunny. She, her husband Zach, and my two-year old grandson Caleb are coming for the day.
Soon I hear the front door swing open and Lindsay walks in. She removes her shoes and nonchalantly sets her overstuffed backpack on the floor. Zach comes in behind her and hands me a copy of the New York Times, a thoughtful gesture. There are hugs all around. “Hey buddy”, Joshua says affectionately to Caleb, who is already in the kitchen, tugging at the curved handles of the French doors that lead to the back yard. Lindsay scoots down to meet him at eye level, and gently reminds him that if he wants to go outside, he needs sunscreen and a hat. She rummages through her backpack and in no time its contents are strewn around my kitchen floor. The lovely chaos has begun.
Once Caleb is lathered up with sunscreen I reach for his little hand and together the two of us walk outside. Soon Caleb lets go of my hand and steps carefully on the curved stone path that leads through the garden. There is a lot to take in, including several groupings of wildflowers, bunches of tall wispy grasses by the base of an old evergreen tree, and an herb garden with an abundance of spearmint. The crown jewels of the garden are my brilliant California poppy flowers standing tall, upstaging the other flowers by their glistening petals that seem to sparkle in the sunlight. As we pass by the poppies I mention to Caleb that they are the color orange. I glance over at the black wrought-iron bench at the far end of the garden and suggest that we sit there. But Caleb is not interested in sitting on the bench nor does he seem to care about the color orange.
Instead, he wants to re-create a scenario he remembers from his previous visit here.
A few Sundays ago I had to shoo away a small swarm of bees that had been attracted to some food left on the porch. Unlike then, on this day there are no bees, but Caleb pretends there are, and he imitates me by flailing his arms every which way, shouting “GO away bees, GO home”, with a hearty emphasis on the word GO. He repeats the scene many times, and he thinks it is hilarious, as evidenced by his belly laughs that are so undeniably authentic I can see his little tummy shake. He wants me to join in the fun so I leap into his make-believe world and together we fend off the flying insects that exist only in his imagination. “This is better than learning about the color orange” I think, and in that moment I realize we are developing a relationship. We are connecting through a shared experience. We are experiencing life together. Me, my two-year old grandson, and some imaginary bees.
When he’s had his fill of the theatrics we continue strolling around and Caleb scoots down to pick up a small round seed pod from the ground, one of many that has dropped from the tall evergreen tree that looms above us. He gathers several of the pods and puts them in a pile, then inspects them, one at a time, rolling each one deftly between his thumb and his index finger. He divides the pile in two: those with stems and those without. I am curious about his sorting decision but I don’t want to break his momentum so I say nothing. As I watch Caleb explore the pods I realize that I had overlooked these curious elements of nature that, since last fall, have peppered the ground. I make a mental note to research their botanical origins when I’m back inside.
I continue to watch Caleb explore the yard and I imagine that this outdoor space must be an enchanting wonderland to him, one that whispers “go ahead, touch the ground, smell the flowers, notice the insects, listen to the birds”. Almost on cue a bird begins to sing and Caleb looks at me, and taps his ear, signaling that he hears the melodic sound of this little creature vying for the attention of its mate. Nature. This is an enchanting wonderland for me too.
It’s time to eat and we make our way back to the house. Everyone takes a seat at the large round table for a meal of pasta, watermelon, and brownies. Like Caleb roaming through the garden, our adult conversation meanders through a variety of topics that includes how a pumpkin grows, and a subject that is on everyone’s mind, the epidemiology of the Covid pandemic. Lindsay and I have a side conversation about Emergent Complexity, an engineering term which she excitedly explains in great detail by drawing small squares on the back of my grocery list.
The afternoon has flown by, and soon Lindsay and Zach are packing up to go home. I walk them out to the car and wave goodbye. Caleb, buckled securely into his car seat, leans forward and blows me a kiss, something he just learned how to do.
It is still light out. I walk in to the house, head straight for the kitchen, and open the French doors to my garden, much like Caleb did earlier in the day. I sit on the wrought iron bench, my front row seat to the natural world. I think about the similarities between my garden and my family, both possessing a rhythm, a cadence, a sense of balance.
My heart is full.
July 2020
San Jose, California
